


A Day in the Life

by Caesia390



Series: Incomplete Alternate Universe Musings [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22841077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caesia390/pseuds/Caesia390
Summary: As if magic had never existed.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Series: Incomplete Alternate Universe Musings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642060
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

It was tough to find out that your best mate was a shirt-lifter. It made Ron feel sort of weird when he remembered all those summers filled with rough-housing and jumping starkers into lakes, all those times Ron had looked over and peeked, just peeked, tried to judge who was bigger, who was hairier. When Harry laughed sometimes and his smile was wicked as a girl. When Ron had begged and begged and begged to spend that year in Manchester, and his parents relented and he got it, night after night of he and Harry sharing a room, sometimes laughing so hard over comic books or stolen rags they’d fall asleep in the same bed, and when Ron woke up Harry’s hand was touching his arm, Harry drooling and his glasses gone crooked. No one else could look quite as ridiculous as Harry at his worst.

So it was just as well that Ron was straight as… Well, as straight as anything could be. And Harry’d looked at him that one time, that one time when he’d asked, just to make sure, and Harry had grinned and laughed and punched him lightly in the ribs, the demented little chuckle Harry had adopted about the same time he’d discovered a fashion sense.

When they’d discovered a fashion sense – Ron had learned that that was what women wanted these days, not enough to just be… just be a man. Had to be fit as well, and Harry had dragged his feet. ‘But the birds, mate, the birds.’ Dreading dancing. Drink to clear away the fear, but they had to go to clubs, had to wear the tight trousers and the open shirts, had to look good enough to pull - glued to the bar, trying to not to look too desperate. While Harry just looked bored and uncomfortable.

Just as well the lad was queer. Harry was a magnet to them. They usually only saw Ron as an afterthought.

Still, it was strange, sometimes. Sort of a relief - I’m not the weird one; Harry is. Harry is different and separate and they only want him, at first, but they can’t have him, want something they can have, and after all he’s not that special, just a ponce like half of London, to hear them tell it. And Hermione, who even though they’d only known her a couple of years now, had insinuated her way into their friendship, even though she was a girl – Hermione would roll her eyes at all his convoluted logic. ‘Of course he’s not any different, Ron.’ With her public school voice and her study grants, though Ron knew she’d gone to state schools, just like them.

She was probably jealous, anyway. Ron knew Hermione would never admit to fancying anyone, acted like she was above it all, but he saw the way she looked at Harry sometimes. He remembered the one time they’d surprised her in Brighton, and she’d blushed and too-late snatched a picture of that Russian football player off her wall.

Just as well.

Strange to think of Harry fancying a bloke. Strange to think of… Strange to think of him doing anything, and Ron’d almost asked that one time, but then he hadn’t. And Harry had seemed to know what he was going to ask, and Harry had blushed and shaken his head.

Just as well. Ron didn’t want to know… that. It was bad enough when Bill came home, dropping hints at Christmas dinner just to see Mum flush, see the twins and Charlie choke with laughter. And that was before he’d had a French girlfriend.

Just as well. Harry had looked at him like he was considering, until Harry couldn’t hold it any longer and he chuckled that demented chuckle that made him look like his father, though Ron would never tell him that.

Mrs Potter (‘Call me Lily’) in her tight clothes, smiling at the boys while she leaned over the breakfast table to serve, looking like somebody’s sister, not a mother of three, while Ron tried not to gape and Harry delved into his morning mush, oblivious.

Just as well Harry was gay. Even if he was taking the easy way out, never having to deal with women.

No, Ron didn’t always know what he was, but he knew soft breasts and enticing rears when he saw them, and he knew what made him act like a fool.


	2. Chapter 2

...

When Harry sees him in the club, his first thought isn’t, ‘He looks like my parents’ age.’ That’s not the type of thing you think in clubs, not when you’re the one on the prowl. He doesn’t take in the cufflinks or the elegant, moneyed air – Harry isn’t a rentboy. Just an honest, fumbling, new-at-this queer but even that nuance of nervousness evaporates under the heat of those eyes – dark, but everyone’s eyes are dark in this light – dark eyes framed by dark hair, gaze heavy and bored, perhaps not even seeing him.

See me, Harry wants to think, but even that thought is terrifying, like the spike of arousal that jolts like electrocution, and Harry has never felt so much so suddenly before, he’s not sure if it’s even real, if it’s really the long-haired stranger, elegant older man leaning against the bar. Perhaps it’s something else entirely. And Harry suddenly wants to turn around, call his flatmate, anything. Anything but see and be seen and face this shock of potential rejection. Because it matters, all of a sudden, facing this man, feeling his breath catch (Inhaler I didn’t forget my inhaler?), it’s not a game, and Harry needs to run into the street for a minute or five and think, think up a plan.

But the dark-haired stranger has a friend, an equally mature and elegant man, blonde hair white under the bar lights, leaning close to that one, smirking, murmuring, staring at Harry staring at him, and Harry feels the prickling of jealousy and embarrassment.

But they wouldn’t come to this club, would they, if they were together? Just a couple of has-been queens reliving their youth (Harry mentally fumbles over the lingo; he’s new at this queer thing, and he wishes Hermione were here with a slang dictionary, homosexual etiquette book). But he’s flickered into a frown and before he knows it, can control his legs, he’s marching, sauntering up to the bar. (Easy, it’s easy.) He bats his eyes at the dark one, casts a cool look at the blonde, and murmurs, ‘Buy me a drink?’ But it comes out like a grumble, and the dark one (dark eyes, black this close, distinguished nose, sort of that frilly Romantic look from the old music vids but oh God looking at me, blushing) the dark one stares at him, angled brushstroke of an eyebrow creeping upwards, and the blonde one is glimmering in a way that suggests guffaw.

Harry frowns. Bugger it, he’s buggered it all up, never should’ve gone to a club alone, bugger Hermione and her suggestions, bugger Ron’s homophobia, doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing… ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he demands of the stranger. My name’s Harry Potter, his mind continues, but his mouth stops it, reminds him there should be more to the conversation, preferably a response.

Mr. Blonde and Cool is leaning into him, Harry’s target, again, murmuring entirely too close into the soft-looking fall of hair, and he snorts something like amusement, and then Harry can’t look anymore, knows he’s being laughed at.

But then Blondie’s gone and Dark is still there, sitting on the stool next to Harry. ‘You may,’ he stresses, and Harry is almost too busy spontaneously combusting at the sound of that rich, soft, exquisite voice to catch the rest – ‘order me a glass of red wine. If you’re still inclined.’

‘Bartender,’ Harry calls, ‘Excuse me,’ a girl in a black t-shirt, bleached hair, deigns to give him attention – ‘Two red wines.’

And then he has to look again, turns his head, and he’s there, Mr. Dark, peering intently at Harry with those black eyes, everything elegant about him, black eyes, like Harry is a particularly strange exhibit, and Harry has to remember to breathe. He feels the comforting pressure of his inhaler wedged into his back pocket.

‘You’ve never done this before, have you?’

Harry thinks of gropes in locker rooms, and the few other times he’s pulled – it’s only been with young men equally randy and careless. Never this manoeuvring, never this fumbling with an experienced, older, disinterested man. ‘Er…’ Harry swallows, finally finds his voice. ‘Not as such.’ He smiles, finally, and remembers that it was so easy before, and Hermione’s advice Just be confident! And Mr. Dark blinks, once, but in a way that suggests relaxation.

The wine arrives, and Harry pulls out payment then turns, pushes his glass over, takes a sip of his own. ‘I’m Harry Potter,’ he says, because in his rudimentary understanding of do’s-and-don’t, introducing oneself is polite. Aunt Petunia, who always scoffed at Lily’s lackadaisical upbringing of her children, would be… less un-proud.

‘Severus Snape,’ the silky voice offers, and there’s a pale, strong, elegant hand to be shaken, and Harry has never felt so in lust before.

…

They bypassed the dance floor and they’re against a wall near the entrance, where the overpowering ‘music’ gives way to cleaner, clearer traffic sounds, and Severus’s long fingers are tangled in Harry’s hair, and Severus’s tongue is teasing all the ticklish spots in Harry’s mouth, behind his teeth, along his tongue, and Harry thinks that if he isn’t careful he’ll hyperventilate or cream his pants or both.

Harry breaks the kiss, panting, and just when he’s wondering what to do next, how to come, he wants to come, and Ron’s rant about serial killers and Hermione’s speech about AIDS, Severus is staring at him, still, again. And Severus says, ‘Shall I call a cab,’ like it is and isn’t a question.

Staring into those dark eyes that are soft and concerned and something deeper, darker, hungry - ‘Yes. Let’s go to your place.’ And Harry wants to drop to his knees at the flare in those eyes, taste him bitter and musky and… ‘If that’s all right.’

Severus kisses him again, pulling at his hair, and Harry’s jeans are so tight, if they weren’t so uncomfortable he would have already come.

…

Severus’s flat has white furniture and black silk sheets and Harry never gave much thought to having a rich older lover, was only concerned with getting laid once he finally figured out the queer thing, but Severus’s mouth on his cock, Severus’s salty hot tongue on his cock with religious devotion, and Harry tangling his fingers in the black silk strands of hair and Harry staring at the stark décor of the bedroom in the pale light – dawn seeping in through the window. He’d never gave much thought to having a lover, but oh, if this is what it’s like…

Severus sucking him dry and if this is what it’s like…

Severus coming on his stomach and then licking it off and Harry falls asleep in black silk sheets, something like a smile, too spent and asleep to be a real smile, playing on his lips. Watched throughout the night by sceptical, too-wary-to-smile, uncertain black eyes.

…

‘I almost believed you were a prostitute,’ Severus says over breakfast during their third date, if meeting for sex and then spending the night can be called a date. He speaks to the omelette he is making. ‘If it weren’t for your absurd ineptitude… and the fact that you still haven’t asked me for money…’ He casts a suspicious glance at Harry, who grins around his glass of orange juice.

‘What about you?’ Harry shoves a torn-off piece of toast into his mouth, chews and talks around it. ‘What were doing in that club if not to pick up… easy young men?’ What were you doing with him? he wants to ask.

‘I was… persuaded… by a friend.’

Harry looks around the kitchen, everything expensive-looking, everything clean and white, and notices again how nothing looks very lived-in. A scenario is building in his mind, a wife somewhere, a roguish colleague… And damn Hermione’s addiction to East Enders.

‘I’ve got to run,’ Harry says, ‘Got to finish something for school.’ Which is true. He does have that project for his art class, due at two o-clock.

He kisses Severus on the cheek before he leaves. It feels very homey, Severus in his white bathrobe, and Harry wonders if he would be fantasizing about marriage now, if Severus was maybe his age and a girl.

…

It is only several weeks later, that Harry has found out that Severus is a chemistry professor, and Mr. Cool Blond is an old friend from school, married, with a son Harry’s age (Harry is not done being jealous) and Severus believes that Harry is a student with his own means, thankfully attending a university Severus doesn’t teach at… That Harry contemplates introducing Severus to his parents. Lily would like him, he’s sure; his mother appreciates dark humour, would laugh at Severus’s sarcasm and wink at Harry to make her son blush. But James… Severus is James’s age, forty-one, and Harry still winces when he remembers his father’s thunderous expression just realising that his son was actually going to be having sex with strange men.

He thinks of Ron and Hermione trying to make conversation in this clean, white flat, Hermione talking too much, Ron too silent at the spare but unmistakeable signs of wealth.

It isn’t much, but they’ve been happy with their nights and their mornings, and Harry would hate to threaten that. He still isn’t done wondering about a wife in the country, but he wakes up here most mornings now, and he’s contemplating telling his flatmate to look for another body to share the rent.

In the end, he doesn’t say anything, and when Severus mentions a conference in Paris and, almost shy, two tickets, Harry doesn’t even think but gets up and kisses him and assures him that he doesn’t have any papers due or practicals that day.

It’s easier not to think about it. He’s new at this queer thing, after all, and when his friends catch him smiling inanely to himself when they do manage to get together during the day, he can honestly tell them he doesn’t know quite where it’s going, but he’s happy this way.

XXX


End file.
